A/N: This one will be 15 chapters, maybe 16. Enjoy!
Shopping for Sara
Chapter 12
White sheets, dark chocolate, San Francisco
Sara improved; she talked with Dr. Victor several times before asking her mother to join her so the two could talk about a forgotten history. It was not easy for mother and daughter to relate the same story, and both were surprised by the avoidance, the reticence, the wariness of each other.
The questions Sara asked of the psychologist captured his attention; he had been working with long-term mentally ill patients for a decade but Sara brought questions, interest and new information to the monotony of his job. Several times he asked if she wanted a referral to a psychiatrist and each time she refused.
"I like you," she laughed as they talked over a midday meal in the center of the facility's large dining room. "You see all these people who are dealing with—with impossible circumstances."
An older man shuffled to the table, hands shaking while holding a cafeteria tray, and stood beside Sara's chair.
"Sara, this is Lance—Lance, this is Sara." Doctor V stood and moved a chair over to the table. "Join us for lunch." After the old man settled in his chair, the doctor asked, "Can you tell Sara about yourself?"
The man nodded, weepy eyes peeking at Sara. "Laura's daughter," he said.
"Yes, I am. It's nice to meet you," Sara smiled. She had seen the man, with his head down, his pace slow, dressed in a uniform of sorts of dark pants and white shirt and a bolero tie in place around his neck.
"Lance has been here for—is it ten years yet?"
The runny eyes lifted. "Ten years ago I came here from a hospital." He looked at Doctor V for confirmation. "I had been at the hospital for eighteen years." His voice shook yet he produced a tentative smile. "I like living here." The fork he picked up shook so much Sara was afraid his food would never make it to his mouth.
Sara agreed the facility was a nice place.
The food made it to his mouth followed by a sip of water. He placed his fork on his plate. "I live here because it's safe for me." His smile returned with more confidence. "See this scar on my neck? Someone tried to kill me but he didn't. I lost a lot of blood that night." The old man chuckled and, amused with his story, he said, "I also lost some of my brain that night." Sara realized he was not as old as he appeared.
"Lance is a success story—much like your mother is," Doctor V said.
Sara's mother took much pleasure in her daughter's company even at times when they had nothing to say. Laura Sidle had lived with strangers who became acquaintances for so long she had no basis to develop a relationship of mother to her grown daughter. She had made her own peace with her past and recognized the role she played in Sara's search for the same thing.
The two women walked to area parks and drove to a quiet beach for a picnic. With the wind blowing from the Pacific Ocean they spent all afternoon exploring rock pools and digging toe holes in sand. Sara found a sea anemone tucked between shiny rocks; it was flourishing a crown of feelers, sifting and stirring the water.
The two women knelt and watched as the anemone seemed firmly rooted on its rock. From a distance, the two appeared as mirror images of long legs bent in the same way, an occasional hand going to push a curl of hair behind an ear, their motions more genetic than either one would ever see.
As Sara watched the sea-anemone her mother watched her. Quietly, she said "You are not like me, Sara."
A bewildered and confused Sara looked into a face that mirrored her own so nearly it was at once frightening and a glimpse into the future. Her mother's smile was different, Sara thought, but otherwise their faces were so similar. The form and shape of their bodies was almost identical.
"I'm not?"
A fleeting smile crossed her face. "We look alike, don't we? But you—you are strong, Sara. Don't let guilt stop your life. You've had a serious life-threatening experience that has brought a cascade of guilt and grief upon your young head." Laura dipped her fingertips in the pool of water. "I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble—about everything."
Her voice, so reserved yet so sincere, caused Sara to reach for her hand. "I'm sorry I haven't been much of a daughter to you."
Laura's fingers twisted in order to clasp Sara's more tightly. Her eyes filled with tears, but she held them back. "I have a home, Sara. This is where I belong—not you."
Sara blinked back her own tears. "I'm getting better, Mom, I really am."
…Three weeks after she arrived, Grissom drove her car to San Francisco for a long weekend visit. Walking from the hotel, which she was calling her temporary home, to dinner, Sara sneezed four times. By the time they had finished dinner, she was sniffling and coughing; her throat was scratchy and congestion was building into a headache.
"You are sick, Sara!" Grissom scolded as she pushed food around on her plate.
"It'll pass," she promised. "Allergies or something. I'll feel better as soon as I can get Nyquil." She sneezed and he passed her a white handkerchief. She buried her nose into its folds. "Thanks," she mumbled.
He reached across the table and took her half-eaten stuffed mushroom. "This is good food!" He was pleased and happy to see Sara becoming her old-self, a quick laugh, her broad smile; nothing clouded her face, her eyes sparkled and reflected the candles in a hundred points of light. She had cut her hair, he thought, and smiled as several curls bounced around her face.
Using his fork as a pointer, he said, "I like your hair."
When she laughed, he heard the sound of sincere happiness in her voice. He had forgotten the effect of it on his libido.
"We need to find a drug store," he said as he lifted the bill from the table.
Sara was the leader—she had reacquainted herself with the streets and alleys, the shortcuts between buildings of San Francisco, and found an all night pharmacy. They shopped for cold medicine and throat lozenges, candy and refrigerator magnet-souvenirs for everyone in the lab, and then stood behind two other customers waiting to pay. Displayed along the front of the counter was a large round rack of packaged condoms.
Grissom chuckled, "Do we need these, dear?" His finger raked across the front of several packages as he set the rack twirling.
Sara shook her head and slipped a hand around his elbow making a face at him when he stopped the motion of the rack and pointed. Ignoring her shaking head, he picked up a package and threw it in the basket with their other items. She giggled until she hiccupped, choked herself and coughed between giggles for two minutes while he paid.
"Are you okay?" he asked. He gave her a lusting smirk. "We'll have fun." She nodded her head, managed to breathe normally, and began to snicker again until her entire body was shaking.
The bored night-clerk was chucking their purchases into a plastic bag. "Do you need a receipt, sir?"
"No" Grissom said as he grabbed the bag and pushed her ahead of him to the sidewalk. "What is so funny?" He pulled her closer thinking it was good to hear her laugh.
"You got chocolate ones! Chocolate condoms!" She giggled. "The ones from the commercial!"
His response was an actual snort. "What commercials?"
She threw her head back; her laughter roared skyward. "The one where the milkman delivers the milk and all the women have chocolate covered teeth when he leaves!"
"I don't think I've ever seen that commercial," he declared.
Sara hugged him close. Between giggles, she said, "Well, you'll have your own private commercial soon!"
The hotel's small lobby was at the end of a long hallway sandwiched between a souvenir shop and a children's clothing store. The place was small and private, friendly and watchful at the same time. Sara headed for the staircase instead of waiting for the elevator which, she claimed, was original to the building. The place was well kept, the wood smelled of polish, and the brass-colored knobs and fittings gleamed. Climbing steps to the third floor, the elevator quietly slid pass them to the lower floors.
When they entered her room, a lump rose in his throat—seeing for the second time the small room she called her temporary home. It was as he expected it to be—neat, only a few personal items beside the bed, everything else was in the small closet. And he knew the closet was as orderly as the room—several pairs of jeans, a half-dozen shirts, her jacket, another pair of shoes. The bathroom was the same way—a few toiletries one needed in a temporary place. Yet it was not lonely or bleak; the brass bed covered with a white coverlet was welcoming. Two chairs, a small table, a very small sofa were grouped together. He knew the windows overlooked a rooftop garden two floors below.
She walked to the windows and pushed them open. "It's cool and I'm growing to like the quiet sounds at night." She glanced back at him, seeking his approval. There seemed to be a shift in shape and form, yet she knew every line of his body and every curl on his head and he had not changed, not physically. Yet now she saw the tenderness on his face, the passion in his unguarded eyes.
He held out his hand. "Come here," he said.
A few seconds passed before she moved; later, she did not remember any interval between his request and the moment when his arms closed around her. Without releasing her lips, Grissom managed to remove his shirt, unbutton his pants, and pulled her shirt to her neck before parting briefly to tug it over her head. Sara returned his kisses with an enthusiasm that threatened to deprive him of breath.
Without words, they made love. Meticulous attention was given to her neck as he kissed her from one earlobe to the valley between her breasts, taking what seemed to Sara to be an extremely long time. She managed to push her pants off and pull him into bed.
The softness of the bed surprised Grissom as they sunk in downy bedding that seemed to wrap around and over them. His tongue circled, sucked and tasted; his hands moved along the familiar curvature of her body, finally reaching her backside. Somehow, she managed to get his pants off with a push of her foot and suddenly he was released, flesh to flesh as their bodies arced, curled, and folded around each other.
Sara's passionate filled moan aroused him as nothing else could do. His hand slid between her thighs; the scent of her filled his head. Frantic, excited kisses rained on his hair. He heard her say his name as a breathless plea and returned his mouth to hers.
Without releasing her lips, he eased into her softness—warm, tight, constricting against his erection. Over and over again, he drove himself into her with her legs locked around his. The sensations of exquisite passion grew into an explosion and without warning, Sara trembled and convulsed beneath him. He heard himself say in a hoarse whisper, "I can not wait…"
A soft cry and he pumped, rapidly, then slowly, as his body moved in rhythm to making love. His hands kneaded her butt as the pulse of her orgasm faded. In a second of thought, he wondered if she would always have this effect on him. In the next moment his climax roared through him as a cleansing fire.
Sara slowly floated to awareness in a cloud of puffy whiteness feeling a very familiar weight across her body. Three weeks or three years and she would know the feel of his body against hers. She opened her eyes and smiled.
Two intensely blue eyes watched her.
"We forgot the chocolate," she whispered and giggled.
"We have time." He shifted slightly but kept himself embedded in her body. She squeezed muscles and he grinned. "Tell me what you do every day."
"You already know."
"Tell me again."
She wiggled and heard an inarticulate groan. His eyes met hers and she recognized the unmistakable gleam of desire mingled with something else—unadulterated lust.
The pain forming behind her eyes, the muscle aches creeping around her shoulders did not disappear, but she pulled her own desire forward and pushed physical pain temporarily from her brain.
"Chocolate," she whispered and scrambled quickly from the bed to find the dark brown and silver package. She tore the corner from the foiled wrapped square and chocolate syrup oozed onto her finger. "Oops!" She hopped back into the bed and straddled Grissom's thighs. She smiled a broad-face-changing grin. "I think there might be a better use for this." She squeezed the packet until chocolate made a small mound in the center of his chest.
Grissom raised his head enough to see what she was doing. "This could get very messy," he said. Her finger was tracing chocolate circles across his chest.
Sara smiled, then pressed her lips together in a mocking thought. "I know where the clean sheets are kept, dear." She leaned forward and dipped the tip of her tongue into chocolate. "Dark chocolate." She sat up, folded her arms across her chest, and waggled her fingers. "But my favorite way to eat chocolate is," a giggle erupted, "a chocolate covered banana, especially when some very tasty nuts are included."
As things turned out, chocolate syrup was very messy in bed on white sheets. And the chocolate never got on the 'banana' after Grissom began licking it from Sara's fingers. By the time the three condoms were opened, and both decided the chocolate tasted better than expected, they had chocolate smeared on noses, behind ears, from chest to naval, between thighs and several other places that had caused both to laugh until they were breathless.
Grissom used a corner of the sheet to wipe a smudge of chocolate from her mouth. "Dear Sara, I've missed you every minute of every day," he said.
Lying very still beside him, her head against his shoulder, she said, "I feel like Manuela Saenz."
"The lover of Simon Bolivar?"
She giggled, "Yes."
"Why?"
"I was forced from my home as a child and after a long while, I found you—my lover, my confidant, my home."
A breath of answering laughter warmed her skin. She continued, "I shall go to Quito one day and find a place that bears her name!"
"Will you invite me to go?" He laughed and drew her closer.
"Yes, we'll go together." She slept then, but he lay awake for some time, holding her as the outside air entered the open windows and cooled their skin.
By the time the sun managed to bounce its rays into their windows, Sara was awake and knew she was sick with more than passing allergies. Her body ached, her nose ran, her eyes watered, and Grissom was in the shower—singing. Chocolate was smeared in places on the bed sheets that made her cringe at how they had played in the night. She pulled sheets from the bed and gathered clothing scattered over the floor. Her head pounded every time she bent over.
Grissom's first words to her were: "Oh, honey—you…" he started laughing and propelled her to a mirror.
After a long shower, she felt better—well enough, she thought. They would enjoy the day sight-seeing. She would dose herself with antihistamines and caffeine and talk herself into wellness. Which she did.
They walked steep streets, ran downhill in a beautiful park overlooking the city, and wandered along paths of the Presidio until they were in the middle of its forest where limited visibility made the place appear more isolated and much larger than it was. They meandered all afternoon until they reached the beach and sat on the sand.
"This may be the most beautiful place in America," Grissom said as they watched ocean going ships and sailboats share space in the bay. He reached for Sara and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. His hand went to her face; she was still thin, he thought, and so fragile. And hot, burning with fever.
"Sara! You are sick—seriously sick! You have a fever!"
He got her to the hotel in a taxi and put her into a freshly made bed with clean sheets—no evidence of chocolate had been left in the room. He went downstairs to the breakfast area, found tea and brought a cup back to her room.
"Drink this," he ordered, "and I'm going to find food—soup?"
"I don't want to be sick, Gil."
His hand smoothed her hair. "You have been swallowing caffeine drinks all day—and what else?"
"Antihistamines," she mumbled. "I don't want to be sick—not with you here."
Grissom laughed. "Better I'm here than you being alone." He pulled the sheet to her chin. "I'll turn on the television and go get food." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Stay here."
By the time he left, Sara was recovering well enough to insist he return to Vegas. He did not ask when she would return. Time and tragedy would make that decision.
Before they saw each other again, another's world would come crashing to a stop—permanently.
A/N: Time is always difficult to determine between Sara's first departure and Warrick's death and Sara's second departure, so we made our own! Thanks for reading. Those of you who kindly share your thoughts and comments are truly wonderful people! Thanks so much!